


we come running

by casfallsinlove



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cop Dean, Fluff, M/M, a little bit of the sex, personal trainer cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 18:16:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casfallsinlove/pseuds/casfallsinlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"They've been doing this shit for six weeks now; six weeks of Dean puffing and panting his way through hundred-mile runs and a trillion bench presses and swimming the equivalent of two laps of the Atlantic, and he still can't find a way to work 'hi you're really hot we should totally go have dinner and then maybe sex' into the conversation. Mainly because 'conversation' with Castiel usually involves a lot of yelling and cursing with a soundtrack of obnoxious beeping coming from that godforsaken stopwatch."</p>
<p>(In which cop!Dean decides to hire a personal trainer and he wasn't expecting Cas.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	we come running

**Author's Note:**

> also on [tumblr](http://casfallsinlove.tumblr.com).
> 
> enjoy!

This whole disaster is 100% Sam's fault.

Because Sam just  _had_  to ruin Dean's lunch by fixing him with that critical look that Dean hates  _a lot_ , and saying "maybe you should get the side salad for a change" like he wasn't dropping a hint. And while Dean smacked him upside the head with a menu for such a smartass remark and ordered a burger and fries just out of spite, he didn't enjoy it all that much and spent the next week staring at himself in the mirror. 

It's not like he's in bad shape or anything. He's a cop and you can't exactly be unfit when you're chasing bad guys around Seattle all day. He knows he's attractive. But there is... well. A bit of podge. And when he stands there and jumps around on the spot a little, his reflection fucking  _jiggles_. 

Hmm. Maybe this is 80% Sam's fault and 20% Charlie's fault. Because Charlie is the one who keeps bringing those pastries with their coffee when they're called in at the asscrack of dawn, and Charlie is the one who insists on 'take-out on a stake-out, Winchester, it's  _tradition_ '. So really, the whole thing can be blamed on terrible outside influences and pain-in-the-ass baby brothers. 

'The whole thing' being Dean's decision to hire a personal trainer, that is. 

The guy, Castiel, came highly recommend by Lisa. They teach at the same gym, though according to Lis Castiel is ex-military, and more into MMA and cross-training than yoga and Pilates. Truth be told, Dean was shit-scared before he even met him. 

What he didn't expect was for the guy to  _look like that_ , all hard lines and scruff and bedhead. 

They've been doing this shit for six weeks now; six weeks of Dean puffing and panting his way through hundred-mile runs and a trillion bench presses and swimming the equivalent of two laps of the Atlantic, and he still can't find a way to work "hi you're really hot we should totally go have dinner and then maybe sex" into the conversation. Mainly because 'conversation' with Castiel usually involves a lot of yelling and cursing with a soundtrack of obnoxious beeping coming from that godforsaken stopwatch.

Still, Dean doesn't give up. In fact, the more he gets to know Cas ('Castiel' uses up too much breath), the more he really wants the dinner part. Which is a little weird in itself, wanting the foreplay more than the fun stuff that follows.

But they actually know each other pretty well by now; Cas is at his apartment by five most mornings, literally dragging him by the ankle out of bed so they can workout before Dean has to get to the station. They carpool when they go to the gym if the weather is particularly bad (and this is Seattle, so that's pretty much all the damn time) and while Dean loves showing off the Impala, he's also come to enjoy riding shotgun in Cas's Aston Martin DB9, and maybe it's a flashy English-made coupe with no leg-room and a tiny engine, but it's still pretty fucking sweet.  

He knows that Cas has a sister he doesn't see often but is still close with and divorced parents who make Christmas a living hell, and in return Dean has told him about his Sam's blossoming career as a child advocacy lawyer and his dead mom and borderline-alcoholic, work-obsessed, detective father.

He knows Cas likes pasta and hates any kind of potatoes, and that he was honourably discharged from the military and has a fucking  _Medal of Honor_  sitting in his closet at home, though he won't tell Dean why. He knows that Castiel takes his coffee with skim milk and no sugar, and still wears his decade-old fraying and faded Dartmouth hoody, and that's he's smart as all hell. 

The point is: he's gotten to know Cas and while he still wants to lick every inch of his toned and sweaty body, he also thinks he could listen to him talk for hours and maybe even really  _really_  like him. 

*

"Come on, Dean, you're lagging! I could walk faster than you're jogging right now."

Dean pushes through the burning in his calves and pants, "You're the fucking worst, you know that?"

"I do, you tell me frequently."

It's a rainy Sunday and they're on an 'easy' jog around Washington Park, and because it seems like a good idea despite the fact that Cas is a mean old slave-driver, Dean asks, "Hey, Cas? Wanna grab brunch after this?"

Cas stops jogging, something that normally only happens if there's a critical injury or the end of the world involved, and stares at Dean, who tries not to blush under the scrutiny of those stupid blue eyes. "With each other?"

Dean tries really hard not to roll his eyes. Cas might be mega-smart and everything, but sometimes Dean wonders if he was brought up in some backwards cult where he was never taught proper social cues and graces.

"Yeah, with each other. Just thought it might be nice to do something that doesn't involve us getting all sweaty and out of breath." He blushes furiously when Cas's eyebrows quirk in amusement and hastens to add, "Shut up, you know what I mean."

Cas appraises him for a moment, as if weighing up the pros and cons of this proposal, which, jeez, it's only brunch, before he finally smiles and says, "I would enjoy that, yes."

"Great," Dean nods, but he's already wondering whether he can go back in time and un-say the words, because now his brain is stuck on 'is this a date, is this a date, is this a date?'. Neither of them had actually mentioned the d-word, but when they part ways a while later to go shower and change before meeting up again, Dean puts on his best jeans and nicest henley and jacket without the bullet hole, just like he would if this really was a date. 

And what the hell, he thinks, on his way out of the door. He looks good--great, in fact. All the training has definitely paid off. His stomach has begrudgingly accepted his new diet and slimmed down. He eats things like  _hummus_ now, even though he still isn't sure what that is, and drinks light beer. It's a fucking travesty, but he does feel better for it.   


(Not that he'd ever tell Sam this. The guy nearly burst into happy tears when he saw Dean eating an apple recently--a total overreaction, if you ask him, and further proof that Sam belongs on one of those hippie health farms where they bathe in mud and eat grass all day.)

So yeah, Dean's actually feeling pretty damn confident when he walks into Harvelle's Diner an hour after parting ways with Cas. And brunch goes well. Dean has pancakes smothered in maple syrup and bacon, because he's only human, and to his surprise Cas orders waffles for himself and loads them up with whipped cream and chocolate sauce. 

"What?" he asks when he catches Dean looking. "I'm not a machine, Dean. I enjoy good food just as much as everyone else." And then he sucks some stray cream off his thumb with an obscene  _pop_ and Dean's elbow slips off the table. 

"You just got a hundred times hotter," he blurts, and Cas looks surprised but pleased and any lingering doubt of whether this is a date goes out of the window. 

They talk for a little while about Dean's workouts, and how Cas thinks they should both register for the Seattle half marathon in a couple of months, before Dean changes the subject to something more interesting and less likely to end in him having a coronary. 

"So, Dartmouth, huh? What'd you study?" 

Cas focuses carefully on his coffee as he replies, "Religious studies with a minor in Classics. At the behest of my mother."

Dean knew he was a nerd. "Wow. So how'd you end up in the military?"

With a shrug, Cas says, "I was restless. I wanted to do something that made a difference. I wanted to rebel against my parents. Take your pick. What about you, anyway?"

The conversation changer is so obvious it's almost painful, but Dean allows it. Everyone's got something they don't wanna talk about, right? He's not gonna push. Not on what he supposes is technically a first date. "Me? Not much to tell, man. I'm not all that smart, so I didn't go to some fancy Ivy League, just plain old KU back in Lawrence."

Cas's forehead crinkles in disapproval. "Dean, please don't sell yourself short. I know it's a habit of yours, to downplay your intelligence, but I've had more interesting conversations with you in the last month and a half than I have with anyone else, ever."

And Dean's not really sure what to make of that. He flushes, because he never has been very good at accepting an honest compliment, and nudges Cas's foot with his own under the table by way of saying thank you. Then he admits, "English major, sociology minor. Then Kansas Law Enforcement Training Center when I finally decided to be a cop."

"Why did you? Decide to be a cop?"

"My dad, mainly. But also, like you said, I guess I wanted to do something that made a difference." This is something Dean hasn't thought about in a while. At the time, he'd wanted nothing more than to follow in his father's footsteps, the great Detective John Winchester in Major Crimes, driven and focused with a track record to beat most of the precinct. Then he'd found his own reasons; wanting to help people who've lost loved ones, bring them the justice that he never had for his mother's murder. A little clichéd, maybe, but it's what keeps him going at the end of a shitty day. 

He doesn't say any of this to Cas, but he wonders if Cas gets it anyway when their feet tangle together further and he's awarded a small, soft smile across the formica table. 

*

Nothing much changes. They still workout four times a week, Dean still chases bad guys around the city with Charlie at his side, who doesn't let up with her teasing when Dean confesses he might have a crush on his trainer. Sam and Jess still harass him about his 'non-existent' love-life because "you're  _thirty-one_ , Dean, shouldn't you be thinking about settling down?"

He wants to tell them about Cas, but he isn't sure what there is to tell. Like he said, nothing has really changed. Their workouts are often bracketed in meals now, and there's the occasional movie theatre trip, but they haven't even  _kissed_. And now it's reached that stage where Dean isn't sure if they're ever going to. He's fairly certain it's technically not even allowed, what with him being Cas's client and all. 

Everything becomes a little more charged though, their interactions a little more electric. When they're running and they knock elbows, Dean feels it down to his toes. When Cas is holding Dean's feet and barking at him to do ten more sit ups, he swears the touch burns through his sneakers. When they're swimming and he gets to see Cas is nothing but his swim shorts, lean chest all shiny and _wet_ , he has a hard time (literally) not reaching out and grabbing him and kissing him senseless.   

It finally happens on a Thursday. They're at the gym and it's nearing midnight so they've got it pretty much to themselves, which is good because Dean is so worked up he can hardly speak. 

He shot a kid today. 

A nineteen year old drug dealer who was holding a knife to Charlie's throat, yeah, but still a kid. So he's angry and fuming at whoever let that boy down, and is unfairly using Cas as an outlet for that fury. 

Cas, bless his heart, doesn't question it. He knows Dean gets like this sometimes and he's an unmovable force on the other side of the punchbag, letting him working it out with his fists. 

"Didn't have a choice," Dean spits out, over and over again, because there are a pair of dead, empty eyes imprinted on his brain. 

"I know, Dean, I know," Cas tells him every time, until eventually, "Come with me."

He drags Dean over to the mats and immediately braces himself in a defensive stance. And damn it all, but there's nothing like sparring with an actual person over a leather bag, so Dean smirks and mirrors him. 

They're both holding back--neither of them have taped their hands, and they're not even in an actual ring, but Dean lands a couple of punches that will surely bruise and Cas trips him enough times to jar his spine. They're both grinning by the time Cas has got him pinned to the mat, a heavy weight straddling his chest. 

"Okay, uncle, uncle!" Dean pants, flexing his wrists in Cas's hold above his head. 

"Feel better?" Cas smirks, leaning forward to deliberately press him down harder until Dean half-groans, half-chuckles. 

"You're an ass," he rebukes, but the words 'now get off me' die on his lips. Because yeah, they're both flushed and sweaty and gross, but this is the closest they've ever been, and if the way Cas is looking at him is anything to go by, he's in no more of a hurry to move than Dean is. 

His eyes flick down to Cas's lips just in time to catch him swiping his tongue across them, and his hips jerk minutely. "Cas," he murmurs. 

"Yes, Dean?" And Christ, Cas's voice is even rougher than usual, and this close up Dean can see his pupils as they dilate. 

"You gonna kiss me?" It must be the adrenaline making him brave, or maybe it's just the tension that's been building for the last three months finally coming to a head. 

"I'm thinking about it," Cas rumbles, gaze fixed on Dean's mouth, and Dean actually fucking shivers. He wriggles one hand free and uses it to grab the back of Cas's neck. 

"Dude," he breathes, pulling their faces close. "Less thinkin', more doin'."

And then they're kissing. Soft at first, unexpectedly chaste, pressed so close Dean can feel Cas's heart racing. Or maybe that's his own, who knows. His other hand fists into the t-shirt at the small of Cas's back, before slipping underneath the damp fabric and scratching his nails into that glorious dimple at the bottom of his spine. 

Cas moans into his mouth, grabbing onto Dean's hair, and things heat up a little then. It's like Cas has studied the _Dean Winchester Erogenous Zones Handbook_ or something, with the way he knows instantly which buttons to press and just how to lick the roof of Dean's mouth and dance fingertips in the crease of his knee as he hoists Dean's leg over his waist. 

The new angle is amazing, allowing their crotches to press together through two layers of sweatpants, and when Dean rolls his hips upwards Cas full-on _whimpers_. It's so fucking hot, Dean thinks he might actually combust right here and now. And what a way to go. 

"You have no idea," he murmurs, dragging his lips across Cas's jaw and relishing the stubble burn, "how long I've wanted to kiss you like this."

"Not as long as-- _ah_ \--I have," Cas gasps, fingers hooking into the waistband of Dean's pants.

They fall together in the darkened, deserted gym on a squashy blue mat that squeaks whenever their sweaty skin rubs against the vinyl, giggling like teenagers as they rut and kiss and grab at each other until they topple over that ledge together, making a total mess on Dean's t-shirt clad chest. Not that he can bring himself to care. 

Afterwards, when Cas is still slumped on top of him and Dean's forgotten what it feels like to breathe normally, he runs his fingers up and down Cas's back and chuckles. "Dude, I think I have to fire you."

Cas hums in contented pleasure. "I'm sure I can come up with a new workout routine for us that involves far less running and far more of this." His finger dips into the sticky mess on Dean's chest and then he sucks it into his mouth, just like he did with the cream on the waffles all those weeks ago, the fucker. 

Dean moans, head banging down against the floor. "You're gonna fucking kill me, man."

"Now that would be counter-productive considering what I have planned for us," Cas returns, dryly, but it makes Dean flush warm and smile. 

"You have plans for us?"

Cas fixes him with a look that promises a whole lot of things. "Oh, I have many plans," he confirms, before leaning down to kiss him again, and yeah, Dean's okay with that. 


End file.
